Dancing with the Devil
by QuiaVeritatis
Summary: V returns to the Gallery with more than a Treasure. He has something for Evey to think about.


Challenge: The Devil

Which V? Movie V +smidgeon of GN V…guess where ; )

Rated R for Squick and some swear words

* * *

"The essence of independence has been to think and act according to standards from within, not without. Inevitably anyone with an independent mind must become "one who resists or opposes authority or established conventions": a rebel. If enough people come to agree with, and follow, the Rebel, we now have a Devil. Until, of course, still more people agree. And then, finally, we have --- Greatness." –Aleister Crowley

* * *

It was dark; no lights helped him find the door to the Shadow Gallery. He knew every stone, every curve of the masonry. He didn't need lights to get into his place, so he was all the more alarmed when he tripped on something soft and dense on the threshold. The satchel flew into the room, slid across the flagstones and came to rest under the piano. He caught himself against the wall and flipped the lights, a knife ready in his hand.

"Oh, V. Oh, I'm so sorry." Evey looked up from the floor. She was lying across the threshold, a pillow under her head; a small blanket covered her little body.

The knife arced angrily back into its place on his belt with a zing and a snap. "Evey. What the hell are you doing?"

"I was waiting for you and I fell asleep. I wanted to be here when you…oh…" she clambered to her feet, dropping the blanket. "Oh, you are covered, you are _covered _in …what is that? Oh god." She put her hands to her mouth, eyes wide above the little fingers.

V looked down at his chest, opened his arms and spread the cape to examine its folds. Yes, he was a bit disheveled. He followed her horrified gaze to where he had fallen against the wall, where his cape had smeared the stones a brilliant crimson.

"You are _soaked in blood_," she moved her hands to her cheeks, looked him up and down. "Your hat too?" Oh god, you even soaked your hat?" she cried. "What have you been doing? Have you been out killing people again?"

"I've been dancing with the devil, if that's what you mean." V pulled at the strings and let the cape fall. It made a sticky moist sound as it hit the floor. "I'll clean that up later." His hat followed the cape to the floor. "And they were all 'bad guys', Evey."

"What do you mean, 'bad guys'? Look which Guy wears the _black_ hat, V. How many are dead? How much blood does it take to soak a six foot man?" She reached out; put a hand on his chest, changed her tone to a murmur, "How much of that blood is yours?"

"None of it," he answered, though he wasn't quite sure that was true.

"What?" She was feeling his chest, his arms, "What? What? There are holes in your doublet, here and here," she illustrated her words by poking her fingers into the ragged holes on his chest. "You've been shot."

"I'm wearing a vest, Evey. I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm more concerned about the fate of my treasure. Thanks to you it has suffered the irony of making it safely all the way from Cheapside to my Gallery before being tossed like rubbish under the piano." He pushed her away, aware of the sticky red smear his gloves left behind on her arms. V reached under the piano and pulled the satchel out. Carefully and with exaggerated tenderness he placed it on top of the instrument, and then tugged at his gloves. He tossed the bloody ones away to land on his cape and hat before making his way to the dressing table and pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves from the second drawer.

"Now we shall see."

Evey stood by the piano, looking at him, not at the prize. She made a face as he approached. "Is this what your dagger 'smoked with bloody execution' for?"

"It is, and funny you should say that." V snapped open the satchel and reached in. He pulled out wads of packing material, letting them drift to the floor around his boots. At last he reached in and lifted out a slim volume in tan calf.

"A book?" He didn't like the tone of her voice.

"Shh. Show some respect." He cradled the tiny book on one hand, tipped it to let the covers fall gently apart, freeing the ivory velum from its stiff prison.

"What is it?" she asked, careful to show respect.

"The Scottish play," V whispered reverently, turning the leaves to the title page. "Not just any copy. This copy belonged to Alexander Pope. Here is where he wrote his comments, ideas and opinions," he tilted the volume briefly so Evey could see the handwritten annotations, "and here is where he used the end papers to jot down a few poems, never published anywhere." He let her glimpse the densely written lines, but only briefly. He wanted time alone with this book before he shared it.

"Oh." Evey swallowed; her attention was shifted to the floor as a tiny movement caught her eye. Then another. "Oh, V, You are dripping…"

He followed her gaze to the flagstones. Four shining red spots, now five, little round spots with sunburst edges. Funny how beautiful they looked on the cream colored stone. Now six.

"V. Dead men's blood doesn't drip. That's _your_ blood."

"So it is." He closed the precious volume and tucked it back into the satchel. "It appears I was wrong and perhaps I have been struck."

"Doesn't it hurt? Do you mean you didn't notice until now?"

"I must 'give the Devil his due'. A few drops of blood are of no consequence. This little treasure was on its way out of the country. Stolen from its home where it belonged to everyone and slated to disappear forever into some vault, some rich man's library."

"And now it has disappeared into your library?" Evey could not take her eyes from the tiny red sunbursts. Eight now.

"Ah, but I plan to give it back one day. I will keep it safe. I know it is not mine."

Evey looked up from the spotted floor. "You follow your own morality, don't you? You just bend the definitions to suit you." Her mouth was set in a firm line.

V sighed. He could see she felt disgust for what she considered situational ethics. He thought of something to quote to her, but realized she wasn't yet ready for Crowley. Instead he put a white gloved hand on her shoulder, bent down low to bring the mask's dark holes level with her eyes.

"Evey. We each must make own definitions; follow our own morality. There _are_ no others. Anything else is tyranny."


End file.
